Roadkill, Little Brother
by The Little Svecica
Summary: Pre-series. Dean is given a hunt from John. The ghost is targeting people that look like Sam. Of course, chaos insues. Stanford-era, T for violence.
A/N: Now, I normally don't write pre-series, but I got this twinge of inspiration to write in Stanford-era. You guys lemme know if I do okay! (Pretty nervous cuz I've never written one of these before.) Oh, and still no beta, so all mistakes are my own.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

I hit the ground hard, my head barely avoiding impact with a large stone. The ground wasn't really much better, though, thanks to the drought. I couldn't do much, dazed, but felt myself being dragged by my ankles, loose pebbles and chunks of dirt scraping my back and arms. What was taking him so damn long? I know what this ghost is going to do to me, and silently pray that Dean didn't break the zippo again.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 _ **The Previous Day...**_

I groan, stretching back in my desk chair, accidentally scattering papers to the floor. _Too tired for those to be important._ I had been up for somewhere around three days straight, between classes, favors, and studying. Especially with the test coming up. I glance at my watch. It was about midnight, causing me to yawn. I push the chair out, ready to turn in for the night. I'd just stood to brush my teeth and change, when I heard a knock on the door. My first thought was 'who the hell is knocking on my door at midnight?'. Then I heard the second set of knocks. It sounded frantic. I make my way to the door, and hear something peculiar. It makes me pause, my hand hovering over the doorknob. I grip my knife in my right hand, slipping behind the door. Someone was picking the lock.

A few seconds later, a semi-familiar figure steps in, quiet as a cat. Whoever it was, was male, and of muscular build. They walked like someone who could handle themselves in a fight. He was shorter then me by half a head or so, and I froze at what was in his hands. _A gun? This is no friendly check-in..._

Silently, I followed the man through my apartment, watching as he observed the place. He stopped at one point, to look at a photo of me and Brady at a party, before chuckling and setting it back down. He murmured something under his breath that I swear included my name, but I couldn't be certain. What really surprised me was when we reached my room. "Shit. Sammy? You around?" _Sammy?_ Slowly, I lower the knife, watching him check the bathroom from the doorway. Finally, I flick the light on.

"Dean?" He turns to face me, a grin spreading on his face. "What are you doing here?" I ask, pocketing the knife.

He switches the safety on his gun, and tucks it away. Before I know it I'm trapped in a hug. "Glad you're alright, little brother. There's a hunt in town, and no," He pulls away, raising a hand to stop me. "Dad isn't here. Said it should be a simple salt and burn, so he left it to me." I nod, understanding.

"But, why are you _here?"_ He frowns at this, my question coming out harsher than intended. "Look," I amend. "I'm just confused. You said you never wanted to talk with me again. Remember our fight?" I ask, tapping the left side of my jaw. He nods, and I notice he's still gripping my left sleeve.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Listen," He pauses, letting go of me a little reluctantly, and I can't help but wonder what's got him so spooked. He let's out a breath, and runs a hand through his hair. "This ghost. I noticed something similar in all it's victims." _Still avoiding the question, but sure, I'll bite._

"What? Were they all killed on campus or something?" I joke, but he looks at me worriedly, and nods. "Anything else?"

"They all fit a description. Tall, brown hair, lanky, bout twenty..." He trails off, and I stand there in the doorway like an idiot, trying to figure out what he means. Finally, it hits, and I scrub a hand over my face. He nods, crossing his arms.

"Alright, you got me." I say, moving to sit down on the side of the bed. "Fill me in."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Is he nuts?! I come here to warn him that there is something in town that wants to kill him, and he wants to come with? _Seriously?_ I gape at him, before sighing. I could tell by his face he wasn't gonna let this one go. He was with me on this case whether I wanted him to be, or not. I sit next to him, huffing my frustration. He'd be safer with me anyway.

One hour later, we're sitting cross legged on the head of the bed, the files from the case spread out in front of us. We'd been studying it, mostly so Sam could see if and _what_ I missed. I glance at the clock on the dresser, noting the time, but don't think much of it, figuring tomorrow's Saturday, and Sam can- something heavy falls against my left shoulder, cutting off my train of thought.

Sam's eyes are shut, a soft snore coming from him mouth. At first I don't hear it, and worry he passed out of other causes. _He must be exhausted..._ I lean him back against the headboard, careful not to wake him. Not that it was difficult. I probably couldn't wake him if I tried right now. Silently, I pick the file up, and move it to the nightstand. Then I pull up the covers, and slip him under them. I chuckle when he won't let go of my shirt. I lay next to him, on my back, arms folded behind my head. _Friggin octopus..._

 _-.-.-.-.-.-.-_

People are dying of being dragged. Whether it's a 'freak accident' or obviously caused by a spirit, it happens once a month. Almost to the day. It took some work, but we found the guy. Jason Bracket. Nice guy. As a vengeful murder for having a loving affair with Carlton Bracket's wife, he dragged his brother up and down the road right next to Stanford. A bit cruel, if you ask me. Anyways, then he came home and beat his wife to death with his bare hands. Guy was a psycho.

So here I am, four feet into a grave at ten a clock at night, with Sam standing watch with the shotgun. One more foot in, and even _I_ feel the chill. "Better hurry, Dean!" There's a loud gunshot. "We got company!" I double time it, and half a foot more, I hit something solid.

"I got it!" I'd just pried it open when I realize I never got a response. Cursing, I climb out of the grave, worry growing when I can't find Sam. I yank the salt from my pocket, coating the body, and quickly follow it up with lighter fluid and a lit match. It lights, and I hear the spirit shrieking from the road outside. Then all goes quiet. "Sam?!" I shout, heedless of security guards. I dash to the road, grabbing my duffel on the way. I drop it by the Impala. And freeze when I see blood on the curb of the road. _"SAM?!"_

 _~.~.~.~.~.~.~_

I always sort of missed this part of hunting. Watching out for someone, knowing that they're watching out for you. But, damn, this ghost was fast. Matirailizing within seconds of being shot. I fumble to reload but I'm just too slow. I can feel icy hands lock around my ankles, yanking my legs from under me. _Shit._

I hit the ground hard, my head barely avoiding impact with a large stone. The ground wasn't really much better, though, thanks to the drought. I couldn't do much, dazed, but felt myself being dragged by my ankles, loose pebbles and chunks of dirt scraping my back and arms. What was taking him so damn long? I know what this ghost is going to do to me, and silently pray that Dean didn't break the zippo again.

I start to panic when I reach the road, realizing what this ghost intended. My head smacks painfully against the curb, and I see stars. I keep flying back and forth, from left to right, stomach to back, and it _hurt._ I hear a shriek that gets quieter as my momentum slows to a stop. I'm not sure if I moving or just laying there, and all I'm aware of is _pain_ and _Where's Dean?_

I can see the looming shape of a truck coming towards me, party music blaring from the speakers. _Don't I know that truck...?_ Doesn't really matter anyways, it's about to run me over. At the last possible moment, I feel myself being lifted, and tugged harshly from harms way. I hear the music fading, replaced by a worried voice. _Open my eyes? When did they close?_ As requested, I peel my eyes open. Dean. Dean is there. Something about an ambulance and I try and protest til it finally hits me.

Hunt. Ghost. Road. _Ow._ "D'n?"

"Right here buddy, right here, I gotcha." Comes the reply. I peel my eyes open again to look at him.

"Ow." I state clearly. He chuckles some, and I try to smile.

"Yeah, ow. You were almost roadkill there, kiddo, in more ways then one." I sigh, shift, and wince.

"D'n?"

"Right here, bro." Comes the sure reply. Stable, reassuring. Safe.

"Hur's." I say weakly. I know it sounds pathetic, but I'd really just like to go to sleep, or fall unconscious, and I feel the need to communicate it.

"I know, buddy. Ambulance is on it's-hey, no, no, no. Come on, Sammy, eyes open." I do as instructed, and shift again, looking for a more comfortable position. The panic in his voice frightens me some. I'd never heard him panic like this. Not since he crashed the Impala at fifteen.

"D'n?"

"Yeah?"

"Chick flick m'ment." It jars me a bit, but he bursts out laughing, and I can't help but smile. I hear the sirens approach.

"Hey! We're here! You're gonna be fine Sammy, just you wait and see."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A/N: So, I'm debating whether or not to continue this. Thoughts? Criticisms? Complaints? All are welcome.


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